Like who?
by koolgirl1120
Summary: Sherlock and John were struggling before they found each other. An inside look at what it was like to be them before "A Study in Pink". Two character studies for Holmes and Watson respectively - my first ever attempt at either character. I'd love your opinions on how you think I did :)


**A/N. Hi there! So, totally new fandom, totally new characters. My friend introduced me to the show and I got hooked. How could I not? Anyway, I wanted to test out writing for them a bit, see if I did them justice or if I didn't, what I needed to work on. This was just a little piece I wrote without any actual plot but it ended up having actual scenes (both take place before the first episode). The top half is Sherlock and the bottom half is John (as you'll undoubtedly deduce). I'd love it if you all let me know how I did :) Oh, and I wasn't raised in England so I don't know all the different terms (ex: telly vs TV) but I do my best. You may now go read (if you haven't just skipped straight to the story already). Enjoy! :D**

**Disclaimer - I do not own Sherlock or anything associated with it.**

Sherlock Holmes does not _care._ Ha! The thought was ludicrous. He was a high functioning sociopath (to those who did their research) and he had no problem with that. Yes, sociopath's connotation wasn't exactly as positive as a proton but those who saw him negatively didn't matter. He had yet to meet someone who thought of him as a "good person".

Well, there _was_ Mrs. Hudson, his landlady. She was old and batty and not the easiest to look at but she gave him cheap rent and never threatened to kick him out, which was more than he'd expected, if he was being brutally honest (which he most always was). She dealt with most of the menial tasks he couldn't be bothered with, complaining loudly all the way but she did them anyway and for that, Sherlock was grateful. That was all it was, really. Gratitude.

Lestrade was different. He tolerated Sherlock simply because he needed him. Lestrade was a perfectly ordinary man with a perfectly ordinary life who happened to come across some rather extraordinary cases. That was where Sherlock came in.

You see, Sherlock Holmes valued the brain above all else. Every part of him that was not his brain was simply transport. He knew that humans only had access to a small percentage of their brains but Sherlock had a hunch that he was able to access a much larger percentage. It would explain a lot. It would also explain the amount of storage space he had up there in his Mind Palace to remember things, even those that _seemed_ trivial. He deleted anything he didn't find relevant but he kept happy memories of course: every case he'd ever solved, every agonizing, exciting second of every one was all up there.

And yet, he still had room for more, which he was more than glad to fill.

But what about when he wasn't doing anything interesting? _Those_ dreadful seconds that dragged into minutes which turned into hours, days, and sometimes _weeks_ drove him absolutely _insane_ from boredom. He would live and he would forget (or rather delete) and then he would be bored again, with nothing to fill that empty space. His life's goal was to fill his head with the most interesting moments of his life until he could hold no more – and then life would have nothing left to offer him.

Sherlock _thrived_ when under pressure. He _lived_ for solving puzzles. Riddles were _completely_ different. Don't even get him started on riddles! Nasty things. It was puzzles he loved, even when some of the pieces were missing it just was a matter of finding them because they could not simply _disappear_. It just didn't happen. And he loved finding those pieces and once he had all of them, putting them together was rather easy, though he enjoyed the process all the same.

Mysteries were _fascinating_. He had to know the answer. It would drive him mad not to know. He would go to the ends of the Earth to solve a puzzle, of that he had no doubt. And why not go to the end of the Earth? What did he have to lose? Nothing. _Exactly._

In order to quench his thirst for solving real life puzzles (not those games for children Mrs. Hudson had bought him in one of his bouts of boredom – those were unbelievably dull), Sherlock decided he would much like to become a detective. He would look at cases or crimes (murders were his favourite – they were just so interesting!) and would look at all the pieces and putting them all together felt so _satisfying_ it wasn't even funny. The feeling of triumph and victory surged through him temporarily and he _reveled_ in being able to show off and prove his brilliance. He felt (for lack of a better and less ridiculous comparison) like he was on top of the world.

But it never lasted.

And so, to keep the euphoria alive as often as possible, Sherlock made himself a detective. Well, not officially because legally that wasn't actually possible without doing a bunch of things he couldn't be bothered with. But why go through all that trouble when he could be a _consulting_ detective for Lestrade? They had a sort of deal where whenever Detective Inspector Lestrade ran into a case he couldn't solve, he would call upon Sherlock and the man would solve it in less time than it took to get to the actual crime scene.

It was so obvious sometimes that he couldn't help but remark how stupid they must have been not to have seen it. This typical behaviour of his gained him quite a number of enemies (he's thinking about _you_, Anderson) but they all simply misunderstood him. Story of his life. He didn't think them all unintelligent (except Anderson), just that he himself was ten times better, if not more. He supposed that could still be considered insulting but why should he care if they got offended? It was their fault for being so sensitive. Honestly.

Sherlock worked with Lestrade to solve many cases and some were more interesting than others. He had a system of rating them on a scale of one to ten and if it was under seven, it was not worth his time. Except when he was _exceptionally_ bored, which happened usually when he turned down the plainly _obvious_ cases and left himself with nothing better to do than groan and complain and wander around the house, trying to occupy his time. His violin helped but it could only help for so long. Perhaps he should take up another instrument...?

It would certainly take up a certain amount of time. Oh, but nothing was ever permanent, was it? What he really needed was a permanent relief from boredom. A slew of cases that never ended would be preferable but even _he_ knew that was not possible. Much to his chagrin and no matter how much he wished it so.

Bored, bored, _bored_. He _loathed_ boredom. Even more than he despised his older brother, Mycroft. Boredom was Sherlock Holmes' true enemy. And Sherlock hated losing – particularly to an enemy.

But how to cure such boredom if not with cases? Mrs. Hudson encouraged him to "get out more" and upon desperate measures, he finally did. He would spend his time at St. Bart's with Molly or with Stamford, observing this corpse and that corpse and conducting experiments and "borrowing limbs" to analyze the saliva of the dead and how it was affected before and after time of death. Experiments were not uncommon with him. They were only half as entertaining as actual cases but they did their job in avoiding complete and utter boredom.

Occasionally, he would suddenly realize that his body needed food and sleep and he would grudgingly acknowledge the warning signs and give himself sustenance. There were many places around London he could get free food because he'd solved someone's problems on a case inadvertently. He wasn't trying to make their lives better but if that happened anyway, it was just smiles all around, wasn't it? Who was he to complain if he was helping people? It wasn't like he minded.

After a dreadfully and painfully _long_ several weeks without a _single_ interesting case, Sherlock found himself moaning in complaint at St. Bart's while Mike Stamford ate his breakfast. "There _must_ be something interesting going on _somewhere_," Sherlock mused, lying on the floor for really no other reason than because he never had before.

Mike shrugged. "Probably. Just nothing that's caught the attention of DI Lestrade."

Sherlock groaned in frustration and rubbed at his eyes.

"Wait, don't tell me," Mike said. "You're bored."

Holmes rolled his eyes.

"On the nose, wasn't I? Knew it." He stabbed another forkful of food and shoved it in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. He swallowed. "You know, life might be less boring if you had someone to talk to. Besides me and Molly, that is. We do have jobs, you know."

"Of course I know you have jobs," Sherlock snapped, not at all in a happy mood. "Who wouldn't, at your age?"

Mike shrugged again. "I don't know. But there's gotta be someone. Then maybe you guys can talk and not die of boredom together."

Sherlock scoffed. "Are you suggesting I make _friends?_" The very thought was preposterous. Sherlock Holmes didn't make _friends_.

Mike laughed. "No, of course not. That's ridiculous." Was that sarcasm? Sherlock wasn't sure. It sounded like it. "I'm suggesting you find a.. companion, of sorts. Someone you can talk to more often than myself or Molly or even Mrs. Hudson."

"Like who?"

* * *

John Watson jerked awake with a shuddering breath. He searched frantically for something to ground him. There had to be something. _Something._ His gaze fell upon the antique clock sitting on the mantle and he was transfixed. He squinted through the darkness of the bedroom and focused solely on trying to read the time. It was practically impossible but he tried anyway – it kept his mind on something other than the dream he'd just had.

He eventually gave up trying to tell what time it was and sighed, slipping out of the covers and sitting up on the bed with his legs over one side. He drummed his fingers against the edge of the mattress to a seemingly random rhythm, deep in thought.

He couldn't go on like this. One could not live his life with nothing to live for. His parents were dead, he and his sister were icy towards each other at best, and John had no friends. _What a way to go,_ he thought bitterly, staring at the carpet as if it could give him the answers. The answers to what, though? To questions he didn't have? To the question of whether or not he actually had questions?

... ugh. He needed tea. He was about to stand when he remembered his cane. Of course. His _stupid_ cane was needed because of his _stupid_psychosomatic limp. John hated the bloody thing. He reached for it blindly and gripped it too tightly, half hoping it would break. No such luck. He pushed himself to his feet and felt his leg almost give way, if not for the cane. He steeled himself and hobbled toward the bedroom door (rather noisily, he might add), not bothering to glance at the clock on the way past.

He limped down the hallway and came to the stairs. The dreaded _stairs_. John scowled at them. Without a sound of complaint, he began the laborious descent, hating every second. He did not get a prestigious medical degree to become a jobless man with no ambition or dreams or... anything, really. He needed something, _anything_. He would take pretty much anything at this point.

He just wanted to smile again. He didn't quite remember what that felt like.

He made his way (painfully slowly) to the kitchen and rummaged through the fridge for milk and filled the kettle and such. It was all routine. Nothing had changed. Everything was always the _same_. John clenched his fist around his cane and refused to sit down and wait for the water to boil. He was just fine standing, thank you very much. At least that was different.

He stood stock still in the darkness, just thinking.

The dream had been like any other night. He was always back there: Afghanistan. Where else would he be? There was the constant sand and the constant sun and the constant heat and everything was the same but every day was different. It was all routine but something always happened. John had friends over there. He'd had real, human conversations with real, human people and he didn't anymore because of his bloody shoulder-!

Hmph. Anyway, whenever John was dreaming, he felt alive again. He felt... whole. He had friends and comrades and colleagues and teammates and he had a purpose and had emotions and story lines and everything he didn't have anymore. It had all been ripped away from him. He'd been content over there. Sure, he didn't see the prettiest of sights or do the most innocent of things but none of them did. All the soldiers were in the same boat. He was no different.

True, he'd become a doctor to _save_ lives, not _take_ them but sometimes taking one life was required in order to save dozens more. He'd made his peace with it a while ago (okay, not really – you never got over that sort of thing). But the suffering and the nightmares didn't start until after he was sent "home". "Back to your country of origin" would have been a more accurate description. And now, every night, he was haunted by the war and things he'd done.

At least according to his therapist.

He needed something to occupy his time. He needed to _do_ something. Going out for walks to "re-immerse himself into civilian society" didn't seem to be working no matter how often he tried. He needed a real job. He wanted to be a doctor again. A surgeon. But the tremor in his left hand prevented it and the limp prevented his career as a soldier which left him with nothing. He couldn't afford to go back to school and learn something new. There wasn't anything else he wanted to pursue.

And this blog his therapist had created for him wasn't helping either. It wasn't occupying his time; it was wasting it. He had absolutely _nothing_ to write about. He woke up. Ate. Went to the bathroom. Ate again. Went for a walk. Ate. Wrote in his blog. Fell asleep. Rinse and Repeat.

It was mind-numbing.

Only in the mornings, when he awoke somewhere around four a.m with his heart pounding and the images flashing and his blood pumping did he feel truly alive, the gunshot still ringing in his ears as the pain echoed in his shoulder and the imaginary blood spurted from him, catching him by surprise every time. And then it would fade and it was back to the boring life of Doctor John Watson.

It wasn't surprising he had no readers. He didn't dare write about his past or his time in Afghanistan. He wasn't comfortable sharing his deepest, darkest secrets with just about anyone. And no, he could_ not_ just pretend no one was reading it and what kind of stupid advice was that? He honestly didn't know why he kept seeing her; his therapist.

Perhaps it was because he knew that without her, he more than likely stood no chance of ever recovering. She was trying to help him, as much as she didn't really care. It was her _job_ and she _was_ trying but sometimes John just wanted to punch a wall in frustration and shout, "DON'T YOU GET IT?" Not that he ever would, of course.

Probably.

The kettle whistled and John jumped, having been lost in his thoughts. He scrambled over toward the kettle and fixed his tea, managing not to burn himself with his shaking hand. He put everything back and sat down at the kitchen table with relief, despising the fact that he even _needed_ relief. He sipped at his tea tentatively.

Something needed to change in his routine. Maybe a new face? He scoffed aloud. Go and mingle? The suggestion seemed absurd. Where was he going to find a girlfriend? Or even just a regular friend? Heck, where would he get an _acquaintance_?

_If_ he was even going to consider this, he needed to know that the person wouldn't care about his background if they were to get along. They needed to look at him and be able to see past the limp and the tremor and the greying hair. They needed to see _him._ They needed to be someone who wasn't judgemental or prejudiced. Someone he could get along with. But the question was...

Who?

**A/N. So... how'd I do? And no, I don't believe Sherlock actually hates his brother but I believe he would tell himself that on a normal day. And I'm a little iffy on how I portrayed John. What do you guys think? Reviews are awesome! :D**


End file.
